Life on the Frontiers of Climate Change
The Haul Road stretching before our rusting and dirt covered 15 passenger van looks much the same as it looked six hours ago - the bumpy, rock covered dirt road immediately before us transitions into a thin yellow line in the distance, weaving its way to the horizon and disappearing over that next mountaintop. The ever-present Trans-Alaskan Pipeline, paralleling this sole path into the northern wilderness of Alaska all the way to the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay, shines in the sun like a slithering stainless steel serpent. Within the dark lenses of my sunglasses hanging from the seat in front of me materializes a view of the passing landscape - a mix of green tundra and thin, seemingly frail or dead pines overlain by pillowy white clouds. I look down at my Robert Earl Keen shirt; the yellow writing and graphics stand out against the brown background. "The Road Goes on Forever" it reads. I am beginning to fear this to be the case.
The Trans-Alaskan Pipeline snakes its way through a summertime arctic valley coming out of Atigun Pass
Two days ago on May 24, while waiting at the gate for flight 1243 to Fairbanks, Alaska – 400 miles North of which I am to spend my summer researching the dynamics of climate change in the Arctic – a man with wild, curly hair and a thick, grizzly red beard chatted excitedly with an older couple. The couple asked him about his home state. "How long have you lived up there, then?" asked the old man. "11 years in Fairbanks now!" the grizzly man loudly answered. "So what brought you up there?" returned the old man. "Well, originally it was a research project!" answered the grizzly man. I choked on my sandwich, almost expelling it onto the person waiting across from me.
Not long after crossing into the Arctic on this researchers-only taxi-van, the gargantuan mountains of the Brooks Range begin to rise from the horizon. The snow-capped blocks of uplifted limestone have clear white waterfalls visibly gushing down the sides of them, presumably feeding the bouldered, braided meltwater stream running along the dirt road, its banks still covered in snow and ice. After spotting white Dal Sheep high on the slopes of the Atigun Pass, we reach the foothills north of the Brooks Range. Now on the North Slope, which has a population density of one person per 13 square miles, there are no longer any trees, but only brown tundra with its characteristic low vegetation (no more than a few inches tall) and large blotches of white snow stretching to the horizon. After 12 hours of travel, we finally reach Toolik Lake.
Not long after crossing into the Arctic on this researchers-only taxi-van, the gargantuan mountains of the Brooks Range begin to rise from the horizon. The snow-capped blocks of uplifted limestone have clear white waterfalls visibly gushing down the sides of them, presumably feeding the bouldered, braided meltwater stream running along the dirt road, its banks still covered in snow and ice. After spotting white Dal Sheep high on the slopes of the Atigun Pass, we reach the foothills north of the Brooks Range. Now on the North Slope, which has a population density of one person per 13 square miles, there are no longer any trees, but only brown tundra with its characteristic low vegetation (no more than a few inches tall) and large blotches of white snow stretching to the horizon. After 12 hours of travel, we finally reach Toolik Lake.
A Dall Sheep we encountered a Sunday hike's high rocky peak wanted a better glimpse of us. Photo Credit: Jennifer Repa (right?)
This statement may be superfluous, but studying in the Arctic is not a stroll to the local park. However, insights derived from research in this unique environment provide some of the most important information we have on how climate change is affecting and will affect our planet. Why? The Arctic is sensitive to climate change as a result of the reflectivity of ice – when ice in the Arctic melts, the darker surfaces that are exposed absorb more solar radiation and warm much faster as a result. Paleo-climate studies also confirm that when Earth's climate has undergone major variations in the past, the polar regions of the planet have exhibited the largest range of variation in temperatures - when the planet is cold the poles are very cold compared to the rest of the Earth, and when the planet is warm they are much closer to the temperatures found in the rest of the world. Thus, in an era when we are beginning to learn about the climatological effects of human activities, the poles are already starting to feel those effects, and they provide some of the first clues to the kinds of changes that a warming climate triggers.
Aufice is formed by stream waters freezing from the bottom, creating layering of ice that becomes, in effect, a seasonal glacier. As the summer radiation melts the ice, the stream cuts its way down through the layers of ice, creating a playground for a moose
So, with these facts in mind, a collection of scientists including John Hobbie and my employer, Gus Shaver, came to Toolik Lake in the mid-1970s to study the changing Arctic ecosystem. They ultimately succeeded in turning the location into an LTER, or Long Term Ecological Research site. Around the world there are now 26 LTER sites, which make up a cooperative network ranging from Toolik (the northernmost site) to Antarctica, which shares a common goal to understand and provide knowledge on the long-term state of the worlds ecosystems. The ultimate goal of this research is to protect the important services to humans that ecosystems provide (like, say, climate regulation) by giving policy makers the best information available. Because many grants in the scientific world only last for a small amount of time (five years representing a long period), LTER sites are both unique and extremely influential in this ambitious goal.
Upon pulling into the driveway at the Toolik field station, it is clear that the region presents not just special challenges to research, but also a special way of life for those who choose to partake in it. The Midnight Sun, which will refuse to set until August, illuminates both the gravel pad on which camp is set and the snow-capped Brooks Range in the distance despite our late arrival. Big trucks, covered in mud to the point that their true color is impossible to identify, as well as large tents and trailer-buildings line the dusty paths around camp. Twin helicopters rest on the gravel pad at the top of the camp’s driveway, waiting for the next flight across the desolate tundra to a research site. Carhartt-clad colleagues kick up dust as they hurry across the gravel unsure of whether it is time to go to bed or time to continue working.
I would soon come to find out much more about this particular way of life. I would come to learn that researching on the frontiers of climate change means living in a community of friendly, amazing people, who - by the way - can throw together a great string band after dinner that will play you bluegrass classics to your hearts content. Those same people can also play a mean game of soccer on goals constructed from PVC pipes, duct tape, and fishing net during the so-called ‘Toolik Cup’. It means, despite supposedly being an intelligent scientist, shocking yourself on your own electric bear fence when you forget to turn it off. It means seeing the game camera pictures at your field site, and discovering a picture of a large moose in one of them; it also means discovering a picture of a familiar looking moose-man dancing in the field while doing fieldwork. It means, while flying back from field work, seeing the broad and muscular brown shoulders of a moose crossing the rushing turquoise blue waters of the Itkillik river in the summertime, circling low in the helicopter to get a better look, and realizing the massive creature below is, in fact, a mother moose, with her small calf crossing carefully alongside her. It means jumping into water, whether Toolik Lake itself or the Arctic Ocean, which aside from a meter or two next to shore is completely frozen. It means sprinting to the sauna afterwards. It means 75° and sunny on the 4th of July and falling snow on the 5th of July. It is going for a Sunday hike with friends across the northernmost continental divide in the U.S., carving your own trail and knowing that you will not see another soul (aside from an uninterested, grazing musk oxen). It means taking a tundra nap while waiting for the helicopter to return to pick you up. It is an Alaskan Amber chilling in a snowpile all day, waiting for post-work relaxation time. Of course, research on the frontiers of climate change also means killing 12 mosquitoes by simply closing your field notebook. And, it means deciphering those notes taken in your book through red blotches on the (luckily) waterproof pages. Finally, it means long periods of time away from civilization, family, and a ‘normal’ life.
Upon pulling into the driveway at the Toolik field station, it is clear that the region presents not just special challenges to research, but also a special way of life for those who choose to partake in it. The Midnight Sun, which will refuse to set until August, illuminates both the gravel pad on which camp is set and the snow-capped Brooks Range in the distance despite our late arrival. Big trucks, covered in mud to the point that their true color is impossible to identify, as well as large tents and trailer-buildings line the dusty paths around camp. Twin helicopters rest on the gravel pad at the top of the camp’s driveway, waiting for the next flight across the desolate tundra to a research site. Carhartt-clad colleagues kick up dust as they hurry across the gravel unsure of whether it is time to go to bed or time to continue working.
I would soon come to find out much more about this particular way of life. I would come to learn that researching on the frontiers of climate change means living in a community of friendly, amazing people, who - by the way - can throw together a great string band after dinner that will play you bluegrass classics to your hearts content. Those same people can also play a mean game of soccer on goals constructed from PVC pipes, duct tape, and fishing net during the so-called ‘Toolik Cup’. It means, despite supposedly being an intelligent scientist, shocking yourself on your own electric bear fence when you forget to turn it off. It means seeing the game camera pictures at your field site, and discovering a picture of a large moose in one of them; it also means discovering a picture of a familiar looking moose-man dancing in the field while doing fieldwork. It means, while flying back from field work, seeing the broad and muscular brown shoulders of a moose crossing the rushing turquoise blue waters of the Itkillik river in the summertime, circling low in the helicopter to get a better look, and realizing the massive creature below is, in fact, a mother moose, with her small calf crossing carefully alongside her. It means jumping into water, whether Toolik Lake itself or the Arctic Ocean, which aside from a meter or two next to shore is completely frozen. It means sprinting to the sauna afterwards. It means 75° and sunny on the 4th of July and falling snow on the 5th of July. It is going for a Sunday hike with friends across the northernmost continental divide in the U.S., carving your own trail and knowing that you will not see another soul (aside from an uninterested, grazing musk oxen). It means taking a tundra nap while waiting for the helicopter to return to pick you up. It is an Alaskan Amber chilling in a snowpile all day, waiting for post-work relaxation time. Of course, research on the frontiers of climate change also means killing 12 mosquitoes by simply closing your field notebook. And, it means deciphering those notes taken in your book through red blotches on the (luckily) waterproof pages. Finally, it means long periods of time away from civilization, family, and a ‘normal’ life.
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The 4th of July was beautiful - 70 degrees and sunny! (It snowed on the 5th, though)
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But today, on my first day of work at Toolik, I am still new and learning from Gus. Today, we need to take large 2x4 boards up to the experimental plots that Gus started in 1979 – almost a decade before I was born. These plots simulate different potential alterations to the tundra in this changing world – a greenhouse plot simulates extreme warming, a fertilized plot simulates an increase in the nutrient availability to the tundra, a fenced plot simulates the loss of caribou to the system, and many other treatments simulate other shifts to the tundra system. The plots seem to go on forever, without limit to the number of treatments or replicates. We load the boards up into a canoe and slide them across the white ice covering the lake to a particular set of plots near the lake inlet. We need the boards to make a boardwalk for a new instrument that we will install next to the plots this year. Gus, a stout, bearded scientist with strong forearms and a rough appearance that initially disguises warm and excited blue eyes and an ever-present smile, is excited to build the platform for the instrument. “The thrilling thing about being a scientist,” he says, “is that you get to be so many things: we get to be carpenters right now, when we bring the instrument out we will be electricians, and when the lake thaws we will be boaters in order to get the power cable across!”
Much of the research on these plots deals with the element carbon. Photosynthesis is the process by which plants strip carbon dioxide (CO2), a prominent greenhouse gas, from the atmosphere and 'fix' it into plant material. Respiration is the opposite process, breaking down plant material and producing carbon dioxide. By measuring the changing rates of photosynthesis and respiration in the warming Arctic and in the simulation plots, Gus and many of his colleagues are able to project how these fundamental processes will be affected by and will affect further warming. Of course, a challenging aspect of this research is that changes do not always involve one cause and one effect. Instead, these complex systems may have feedbacks (like earlier snowmelt, which causes even more warming) that accelerate the rates of ecosystem processes (like photosynthesis and respiration) and thus change the dynamics of the system. A great example of a feedback of warming is that it causes more fires, which can change the dynamics ecosystem processes in the tundra. This is a major component of my own research here at Toolik.
In 2007, lightning struck the tundra about 40 miles northwest of Toolik Lake and set fire to the typically wet, fire retardant vegetation. The fire burned for several months, ultimately severely burning over 1,000 square kilometers of tundra near the Anaktuvuk River – an area larger than burned on the North Slope in all of the fires combined that were recorded from almost 50 years of observation spanning 1955 until the early 2000s. As you can imagine, fires may become a norm for the Arctic in a warmer, drier climate. So, this natural event has, in fact, provided scientists with a great ‘plot’ to add onto our research.
Of course, doing fieldwork at this site comes with its own challenges. Adrian Rocha, a post-doctoral researcher with Gus’s team, and I are flying out to the burn site via helicopter at the end of my first week at Toolik. I was told to pack a sleeping bag, warm clothes, and lots of food. When the helicopter lands at the burn site, we ‘hot’ unload under the whizzing blades, walk away from the aircraft, and let it take off to provide services to another group of researchers. Once the reverberating chop of the rotors fades into the distance, I understand why I packed all that gear. We find ourselves in barren tundra stretching to the horizon. Should bad weather roll in, we would be stuck out here for a cold night or two. Our research plot within the massive burn scar has several instruments set up in it to measure photosynthetic carbon fluxes, and a thin white fence surrounds them. Adrian explains that this bear fence was just put up this year because last year a bear attacked the instruments, causing them to lose the end of the summer’s data. “But don’t worry too much,” he says, “bears haven’t come around before while we have been out here…”
That’s just life on the frontiers of climate change.
Of course, doing fieldwork at this site comes with its own challenges. Adrian Rocha, a post-doctoral researcher with Gus’s team, and I are flying out to the burn site via helicopter at the end of my first week at Toolik. I was told to pack a sleeping bag, warm clothes, and lots of food. When the helicopter lands at the burn site, we ‘hot’ unload under the whizzing blades, walk away from the aircraft, and let it take off to provide services to another group of researchers. Once the reverberating chop of the rotors fades into the distance, I understand why I packed all that gear. We find ourselves in barren tundra stretching to the horizon. Should bad weather roll in, we would be stuck out here for a cold night or two. Our research plot within the massive burn scar has several instruments set up in it to measure photosynthetic carbon fluxes, and a thin white fence surrounds them. Adrian explains that this bear fence was just put up this year because last year a bear attacked the instruments, causing them to lose the end of the summer’s data. “But don’t worry too much,” he says, “bears haven’t come around before while we have been out here…”
That’s just life on the frontiers of climate change.
